cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (sugar in my coffee)
I know it's grouchy of me and I'm not saying I'd do any better, but I swear these last two weeks of school are nothing but my kid being used for community focus groups. Yesterday, someone from ACT came by to beta test a writing exam on Tweetie's class. Earlier, there was an assembly so a spokesperson from the public library could tell them all about the summer reading programs. They are the captive audience for older students' end-of-year recitals, and their unit review of Levers and Pulleys was a video about the rides at Disneyworld. This is why I don't feel guilty at all about Tweetie missing the last (snow make-up) day of school so we can get to the Grand Canyon; she'll be a much more active participant in learning with us on the road than being used as a test subject.
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (hangover) tend to clear it. -- Magnificent Ruin

I squeaked when I stumbled across this on tumblr, because I had clipped this very juxtaposition of images from a magazine and taped it to my nonfiction bookshelf about eight years ago.

matisse picasso

I adore Matisse's collage work. I once read that he took up collage when it became difficult for him to paint. He couldn't stop making art, so he made a new kind of art. And it's so happy, like Look at me go! Nothing can stop me! I don't care for Picasso or his work (well, there is *one* drawing of running horses). But seeing the two images together made an impression that I wanted to hold onto.

Since Tweetie often played in my office space as a baby, she saw the pictures a lot. I explained that they were drawings done by two artists who knew each other, and how someone put them next to each other to compare them. One day she handed me a drawing of yellow and blue lines. She indicated it was her rendition of the drawings. I taped her artwork on the bookshelf underneath the inspirations.

Not long ago, I finally removed all three pics from the shelf, because the first two were rippled from humidity, and Tweetie's had faded to nearly nothing in the sun.

And then! Tumblr gave them back to me.
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (neon sign)
It is Spring Break at Limoncello. Even JJ took the week off. Last week we did a major cleaning, so all that's left are some odd jobs before we head to Wisconsin for adventures.

One of the odd jobs was buying new luggage for J and Tweetie. (My suitcase is in decent shape.) They found a deal at CostCo, getting a matching set of "Ricardo of Beverly Hills" hardcases with slick caster wheels. Tweetie has thus named her suitcase Ricardo and spent a LOT of time yesterday speaking in a loving robotic voice to Ricardo and her old suitcase, Space Giant. (Why was she speaking in a robotic voice? I don't know. But it was weirdly cute.) She also donned as a toga the foam sheeting that came in the cases, then had the suitcases wear it as well. And, she curled up to read in the big box that the luggage came in. So, good purchase!

We continue to watch Smallville as a family. We are in ssn 9 and I spend most of my viewing time rolling my eyes so hard it's a wonder they haven't rolled out of their sockets. The show is a debacle. Plot holes and fantasy elements that only a tween could accept, but with hokey sexual content that embarrasses us all. Alas, Tweetie is hooked. I enjoy Teen Wolf MUCH more, but it's scary for Tweetie, so we have to pace ourselves with that show.

I'll admit to one highlight of watching Smallville this week: after a magician cast a spell on Clark Kent to make him kiss and make out with her, Tweetie told me, "I know what that was. That was rape." I was astonished, but got it together enough to agree that yes, sexual activity without proper consent from the participants was rape. And I was proud that she knew that, even though she likes the show, even though it was a man who was the victim, even though the aggressor was a smiley female and the episode continued as if it had all been a game. Tweetie was not fooled.

We've been investigating the history of our town a bit. Using a Google program called Field Trip, J found mention of a devastating fire at a glove factory near the Iowa River back in 1911. We hadn't even known there was a glove factory. So we went to the site, which is rather glum looking now, being a run-down industrial area and now home to the sprawling recycling center. We agreed the site would've been a very convenient factory location, near the river, near the railroad tracks.

Also using Field Trip, J showed Tweetie a photo of a man fishing in the Iowa River right near a fish ladder. After explaining to her what a fish ladder was, I suggested it wasn't very sporting to fish there. I said, "It's like building a bridge over a highway so people can walk across, then shooting them." Tweetie's face went pale and tight. After a moment, she said, "Mom, sometimes you scare me."

A Blockbuster store was going out of business, so we went in to score some cheap DVDs. I got Pontypool, The Crazies, The River's Edge (all of which I've seen and enjoyed before), and a couple of things for Tweetie. I also saw about 500 copies of My One and Only, a 2009 Renee Zellweger movie I'd never even heard of. J suggested Blockbuster's inventory of that movie for the entire country had ended up in this store. It still seemed like way too many.
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (gun)
This weekend, I watched We Need to Talk about Kevin. I'd not read the book, but I knew, vaguely, the storyline: mother feels antipathy toward her first child, insists that there is something wrong with him, which everyone else blithely dismisses, and in the end, she is proven terribly right. But was it a self-fulfilling prophecy?

J left the room halfway through the movie because he said it was too depressing. It's pretty clear from the first few minutes that something awful has happened to this woman, this town, and the story is working its way to what and how, if not why, it happened. J's attitude was, why endure this slow-motion tragedy?

Personally, I found the performances by Tilda Swinton and all the boys who play her son to be absolutely riveting. Here is an awesome photo of Swinton with the four versions of Kevin:

Note the haircuts, how the boys are all "behind bars." The oldest, Ezra Miller, is especially terrifying, partly because he is so beautiful. Like an angel. Deadly and distant, a sizzling permafrost. And he usually wears white.

Incidentally, that second image is Kevin shortly after he's poisoned someone.

True, there are plot points that niggle: if the mother so hated her son, why did she end up being his primary caregiver? who took care of him when she went away for two months to work on a travel book? and nobody else's internal alarms went off about this boy? etc., etc. To work, the movie focuses on mother and son so tightly as to be isolationary, like a prison *and* a womb. And that's why I was able to watch the movie to its conclusion, and even feel hopeful at the end. The director makes us feel that no one else is quite real. The same thing that makes the boy a monster, really. No one else matters, not if these two people can finally work out some understanding of one another.

(We see this happen a lot in possession movies: the victim, usually a girl or young woman, undergoes terrible tortures so that the male lead can have his epiphany. In We Need to Talk about Kevin, the mother is emotionally tortured, but it's other people who pay dearly so she and her son can connect. This may be a worthwhile departure from the norm, but it's not really what I'm concerned with right now.)

Granted, there's the possibility of voyeurism as motivation to watch the movie to the end. Like the train wreck you can't look away from, rubbernecking at a car crash to make sure it's not you who's dead, you might persist until the end credits because you want to know just how bad this boy is. But, honestly? We know this story, and there's nothing sensationalistic about the film. So if you hold out just for that, you're not rewarded. And I wouldn't say there's catharsis at the end.

Marion Wrenn had an essay in the Nov/Dec 2011 issue of American Poetry Review titled "Catastrophist." She compared Brueghel's painting Landscape with the Fall of Icarus, noting its portrayal of benign indifference to Icarus's death, to the accidental death of professional wrestler Owen Hart in front of a live audience. (Icarus is the pair of legs in the water at lower right corner.)

Wrenn argues that pro wrestling fans "enact the opposite of benign indifference. They are deeply engaged in the choreography of disaster....'the spectacle of suffering'." Rather than being stupid, as the stereotype would have us believe, the fans are quite aware of the staging and usually delight in the blurred line between authenticity and spectacle. Wrenn likens it to a magic show: the pledge, the turn, the prestige.

But Hart's death was horrific and destabilizing to fans. The live audience struggled to make sense of the events while not wanting to believe they'd just watched a man die. The pay-per-view audience struggled differently: they knew from the (initially also perplexed) announcers that Hart was dead, but supposedly there was no footage of the death. Wrenn writes, "It's still hard to watch. But now it's got the traces of the tragic, in the classical sense: we hope that he's not dead, know he is, pity the folks who are finding out in front of us. We are secure in our knowledge, the unfolding narrative cannot traumatize us as it did when new...but there's something under the surface that needs to be re-seen." [italics mine]

I think it is this sense that we still have something to learn, something we halfway know, that determines if we choose to watch a catastrophe play out in art. Obviously it's a different level of catastrophe, but I, for one, cannot watch humiliation comedy because I'm overwhelmed by empathy. I can't get past what I would feel like if I were in that situation in order to learn anything. (And I daresay, typically there is nothing to learn from these scenarios.) There is no catharsis for me, and no lesson learned.

I *can* watch Tilda Swinton's character face-off with her son because (1) I identify with [am forced to identify with?] the "wrong" characters; wrong in the sense that, if these events really happened, I'd sympathize with the victims, not the perpetrator, and also in the sense that a mother who does not bond with her child--as I did not at first and Swinton's character never does--are automatically considered "wrong" or suspect by society. And thus (2) I feel like I have something to learn from the film. Still no catharsis, but there's the hope of intellectual payoff.

Days later, I am still processing what I saw. I think watching the catastrophe play out was worthwhile. The ending felt "right" to me. I can see being that mother and doing the things she did in the aftermath. I can see doing penance for something that isn't quite one's fault, accepting a burden that will never lighten anyone else's load because that is the only way to endure. If there are more questions than answers, at least they are the kind of questions worth considering. 

cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (Default)
Tweetie is reading a new series called Dear Dumb Diary. I appreciate the main character even less than I do the guy in the Wimpy Kid books. For one thing, the girl narrating the Dumb Diary books is "looks-ist" and engages in the backbiting Mean Girls subcult I dread. I've told Tweetie I don't like the "heroes" because they're rude and unkind with no self-awareness, but I haven't done anything dumb like forbidden the books. (And I do read with her, on occasion.)

Last night I remembered, however, that my favorite character in Charlotte's Web was Templeton the Rat, who was selfish, rude, petty, and gluttonous (although redeemable). And my favorite character on Buffy was Spike, who shared all Templeton's traits. And my own character Heidi will never be Miss Congeniality. So, okay, the poison apple doesn't fall far from the tree. I guess the important thing is that, no matter how much we delight in reprehensible characters, we endeavor to behave honorably in real life. And Tweetie does. And so do I.

I've been looking for cooking odds and ends to encourage Tweetie to play and experiment outdoors. She already loves making "earth soup" and building "forts," which resemble tepees to me. We got her a used hand-crank grinder and she's been grinding up seed pods, leaves, flower petals, dry pasta...basically anything we suggest or approve. She also liked the idea of washing out some old bubble tubes to use as "vials." I thought she might like some tongs, but I haven't found any good ones yet. (we'll go to the secondhand shop this weekend) Also, a cheapie kitchen scale.

Any other ideas for cheap, repurposed tools conducive to the budding environmental scientist?  : )

cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (hangover)
I did not bring up the children's religious dispute with the other mother--although there was an awkward moment when she asked if we were doing anything special for Easter. "J & I are going to a Murder by Death concert," I said. Then felt obligated to explain that Murder by Death was not a heavy metal group (which was weird, since I listen to heavy metal too and see no problem with that) and that Tweetie would miss school on Friday and we'd all get a long weekend.

Um. Yeah.

Anyway, the kids played together after school and got along fine, as usual. Meanwhile, the mother and I talked about my dye job. Then in the evening, Tweetie told me she'd broached the Hell topic with her friend earlier in the day. I was astonished. I thought I'd steered her in the direction of genial avoidance. But no, she asked her friend to explain what she'd meant about her dire warning, and her friend said she'd talked to her mom and her mom said that that was not how it worked after all, and then Tweetie shared *her* family's beliefs.


"What did you say?" I asked, slightly terrified.

"I told her about the candle thing." 

Okay... That morning I'd told her that J & I believe human lives are like candle flames, and once they're out, they're out. The lingering smoke is the memories and good you leave behind, and the more you contributed to the world, the longer that smoke lasts. I don't know how well that translated in the lunchroom or playground or wherever our kids are having their philosophical inquiries, but I don't suppose this is the worst metaphor we could have representing us. I'm glad I didn't talk about decomposition. Especially since about a week ago, Tweetie and friend were imagining ghosts populating the playground, and I said, "Well, the dead do outnumber the living," which seemed to startle the other mother. (They DO!)

So I praised Tweetie for discussing a sensitive topic so well and told her many adults could not have had that discussion without getting upset or hurting someone's feelings. I told her I was proud of her and her friend. 

And then I had a Kraken Rum & Coke. Whoo doggy!

"On a bender," said the Angel of the Lord.

cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (saint dean)
This morning Tweetie told me, tearing up, that one of her best friends at school had said that people who didn't believe in God went to Hell. (Note to new friends: spouse and I are atheists, and we're raising Tweetie to be a tolerant skeptic.)

Initially, Tweetie thought her friend was kidding, but she'd come to realize the girl was serious. She said she didn't know if she could be friends much longer with someone who talked like that. We worked through her hurt and I pointed out that these discussions don't and shouldn't come up often at her (public) school, and that people's beliefs change over time, etc. I think Tweetie's okay now and knows how to change the subject when necessary.

My question is, Am I done? Should I speak to the other child's mother? We get along well, and I think the mom would be dismayed that her child had caused anyone any hurt. Or do I let it go? In the grand scheme of things, I don't know that this incident matters much, and Tweetie's going to have to get used to having a nonconformist family. I mean, I have pink hair right now.

My instinct is to let it go. But I'd like to hear all ideas.

cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (book)
The Brightening Glance: Imagination and Childhood by Ellen Handler Spitz

p. 54 "Children...keep secrets from their parents for a variety of reasons, one of which is to maintain and preserve their own psychic boundaries. Consider how many children endow their mothers with a sixth sense--an uncanny ability to know all about them before they know for themselves. Thus, an aura of surveillance may seem to exist even under the most benign of circumstances, and many children, as a consequence, feel the need to hold fast to the slippery knowledge that what is inside their heads is in fact private and unknown to others."

And yet my daughter still fibs to me.

p. 67 "[Mr.] Rogers never loses sight of the fact that what he offers on his show is being received by thousands of children within their own private playing and sleeping spaces...To be invited into such hallowed spaces requires respect for their sanctity as havens and for their diversity."

a) Spitz made me cry with her detailed analysis of Mr. Rogers' show helping children to cope with death. I felt his loss more deeply than ever. What a gentle genius he was, what an incredible, compassionate teacher.

b) The "sanctity" of my daughter's living space lasted until she was perhaps three. By the time she was old enough for PBS Kids, we were teaching her to view with a critical eye anything coming at her from books, tv, news, and movies. Home is still her safe haven, but because storytelling is so huge a part of my life, we are always pushing Tweetie to deal with challenging, even frightening material. Children grow up fast. I think the notion of "allowing" the media into our "private space" is dated and not all that helpful--although I have told Tweetie, "You're the boss of the technology. It's not the boss of you."

I didn't think Spitz quite honed her conception of who the audience was for this book. On the one hand, she spent what felt like a lot of time at the beginning of the book explaining the importance of art and "high" cultural experiences in childhood, and spent the last chapter of the book explaining that art and imagination are necessary to all careers, even (gasp!) those in the sciences. On the other hand, she tosses off allusions to specific artworks that I can't imagine non-artists are familiar with. I've read Ionesco, and I didn't get the rhinoceros joke. She probably dialed it down as much as she could.

As a writer, I didn't really need Spitz's bookend explanations. What I found useful were her chapters "What Is Too Scary?", which provides in-depth analysis of Bambi and the aforementioned episode of Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood, and "Children's Rooms, Sites of Refuge, and Being Lost"-- the "being lost" section, incidentally, was quite helpful to me last night as I suppressed my urge to kill my husband for not calling home when he was two hours late. :D

cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (saint dean)
This morning, [ profile] hominysnark retweeted an Easter joke that had me snorfling my coffee. Of course, then Tweetie wanted to know what was so funny, so I told her, then I had to give her a clean version of the Easter story by way of explanation.

"See, Christians believe that Jesus Christ died and then a couple days later on Easter, he CAME BACK FROM THE DEAD!"

Tweetie frowned. "That's odd."

"The weird thing," added J, "is they don't consider him a zombie or a vampire."

Tweetie looked thunderstruck. "What?! They don't?! What?!"

"Finish your yogurt, honey. You'll be late for school."

cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (Maggie with Coffee)
One of Tweetie's favorite shows is "Martha Speaks," about a dog who gains the power of speech by eating alphabet soup. Yesterday the show ran through a bunch of Greek myths, including the stories of Sisyphus, Medusa, King Midas, Prometheus, Narcissus, and Orpheus. The show was pretty amusing, but something was nagging me. Something I'm all-too-familiar with from discussions of American Indians in early education.

As the show ended, I casually asked Tweetie, "You do know Greece still exists, right? And there are still people called Greeks?"  

"What?! Really?!"

"Yeah," I said. "You want to see it on a map?" To wikipedia!

She was astounded to see the 6000 islands and islets of Greece, and the country's flag. (She's interested in flags because we've been looking at state flags in preparation for our upcoming road trip.)

Tweetie decided she wanted to perform plays based on Greek myths, like in "Martha Speaks." She asked if we had a book of Greek myths. I had to admit, no we did not. But! I pointed out, we had books of Chinese fairy tales, Pakistani fairy tales, and the adventures of the Mayan twins Hunapu and Xpalanque. She storyboarded the Sisyphus and Prometheus stories, then the one about how the twins' father and uncle ended up in the underworld (Xibalba; mostly to please me, I suspect), and lastly a story of her own about a confrontation between bull and man that does not end well. She roped her dad and me into helping her stage Sisyphus, and she threatens to perform Prometheus tonight.  

She's epic, man, but it tires me out. 
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (bruised)
 This morning I was feeling like a bad mom. A lazy, indulgent mom. Last night we had dessert for dinner. Tweetie had apple pie, ice cream, cashews, and mango. This weekend she went to a party and at home she watched too many episodes of Smallville and even sat through Pitch Black with me. Last week she got sent to the principal's office for using her scissors on her clothes, and my first instinct was to blow it off. I didn't, but I really had to exert myself to give a damn. It's not like she was cutting herself, or her classmates.

So I've been feeling like a weird slacker mom and this morning as I tried to get Tweetie to center herself and get into the school zone, I thought I had done her a disservice this past week and she was going to have a rough time getting back in line.

After the bell, I stood chatting with another mom in the parking lot. We heard a man yell. He yelled at someone like I've only ever yelled at people I wanted to drop dead. I looked around baffled. I finally realized, he was dropping off his son and was yelling at his son.

The boy walked into school crying.

I don't feel like such a bad mom anymore.
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (asskicking boots)

Allergies kicked my ass yesterday, so now I'm a day behind. Eh, 's all good.

Protest Poetry

I'm leery of calling Lennon's "Imagine" a protest song, because it's not about any one thing. It's more of a manifesto, I guess. I think of protest poetry as targeting a specific problem. But "Imagine" makes a good segue for the the three poems I've chosen as protest poetry, all of which are anti-war.

an excerpt from "Animal Origins"

by Joanne Dominique Dwyer (2009)

At sixteen my son smells of pot and cigarettes;
of pine sap and wolf cubs.
Yet he's rolling and spraying on
all kinds of products to hide his scent--
as if to camouflage his existence.

I count the day until he turns eighteen
and imagine myself smuggling him across a border;
burying him under blankets.
I would douse and dab and spritz
my body with any animal's genitals
and the oil of one thousand crushed violet petals
to distract the border guards.
Truth be told, I'd don or swallow
any noxious Fifth Avenue fragrance,
skin or spear any endangered animal.
Rip open my womb and stuff 
him back inside if I have to
in order to prevent my son--
or yours--having to go to war.
The sense detail in this section is incredible: rich and immediate (and eventually) merciless. I especially love that she starts with scents, which are sorely underrepresented, and conjures textures from them. Can't you just smell this teenage boy?
Dwyer does some interesting things with unnecessary semicolons and truncated sentences, but the em-dashes really seal the deal on the conclusion to her poem. I can imagine most mothers getting that visceral and ruthless about protecting their own children, but knowing the narrator will do that for anyone's child? Wow.
Tomorrow's poem will also be from the perspective of a parent, but take a very different approach.
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (I need coffee)

Which has become an eleven-day meme because I was broken (maybe even ded) yesterday.

Day 10: One Confession

Last night I dreamed that I was in school and I had Tweetie's teacher. I woke up drenched in sweat and ready to hurl. I have new sympathy for my daughter. I wouldn't last a day in her shoes.

cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (bruised)
* Your body is not the enemy. She's gotten you this far, right? So give her a break.

* You cannot punch a child. No matter how sick you are of kids asking Tweetie if she's wearing boys' clothes/shoes or if she's a boy or a girl. (Although, George Clooney on a cracker, what the fuck is up with that? 1, she's so clearly a girl and 2, what does it matter if she's a boy or a girl? are they going to treat her that differently, and if so, DUDE!) Never mind. You cannot punch a child.

* Everything will get done, and in time enough. You are awesome. You have a heart so big it could crush this town. (Thank you, Tom Petty.)


* It's not sane how angry you get when "sugar skull" is used as a descriptor for things that are neither made of sugar nor in the form of a skull. Just LET IT GO.
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (raccoon)

We finally watched 9 last night (the animated movie, not the Penelope Cruz musical--did I even have to say that?). We decided to preview it before showing it to Tweetie, and it was a good thing. Within the first 10 minutes, I twice thought, "Well, that can't be good." Fifteen minutes in, I thought "Holy fuck." By the 20-minute mark, I'd gotten to "A la chingao."

Tweetie is precocious in many ways, but this film would've been way too dark and distressing for her. Not so much the idea that all the humans are dead--though that's bad enough--but seeing the protagonist attacked and bullied and berated without explanation. Like all the bad parts of childhood without the relief.

Shucking mommy mode, I liked the movie, thought it was good. The narrative was overhoned, but the thing that kept wrecking my suspension of disbelief was seeing the old cars. I'm okay with parallel worlds and fantasy, but apparently I can't cope with the idea that the apocalypse happened in the past.

We have the first disc of the animated series The Tick, and I'm trying to remember if it's Tweetie-friendly. Can anyone help?

cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (I need coffee)

Who nicked whose tiara
and "Where's my magic wand?"
To endure Stinkerbell drama,
add pixie dust to coffee grounds.


My response to Tweetie's recent fairy-themed party.

It was a success. And I'm never doing it again.


cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (silver teapots)


cirrus moon slums
with sunlit clouds, envies
the whirligigs


This morning's injunction to Tweetie: "Okay, don't talk about vampires at school, all right?"

What do you say when you leave the house in the morning?

cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (drink me)


Spider rides
the breeze
and Moon spies
over the trees


This weekend I had one of those "I'd give anything to be able to take that back" moments with Tweetie. We were watching TV and the local news advertised its expose-style special about school staff who abuse students. Tweetie asked me what "broken trust" was, and I told her, then I explained that some teachers or people who work in schools are not trustworthy. Her mouth dropped open. I hadn't even gotten to the sexual abuse part yet.

Sometimes I wish we didn't live in this world. The world where children are prey and people can't wear what they want, lest they "consent" to rape. But it's our world too, damn it. And I'll be damned if I give it up.


On my toes!

Apr. 6th, 2010 08:53 am
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (writing)

April flurry
we dance in scanty drifts
beneath the dogwood


Tweetie is doing her job and keeping me on my toes. This morning, I hadn't gotten halfway through my coffee before she told me that when she was a grownup and ready to start a family, she thought she would adopt. Really? I said, impressed and proud. I asked why she was planning to adopt. "Because," she said, "I don't think I want to love a man."

My thoughts, in the order I had them:
But men are so lovable.
Sister, I hear ya, too much work.
Wait a minute, did you just out yourself?
But you're already married--remember that boy from daycare?

What I finally said: "Oh. Okay."

Then she went on to discuss her child-care and career plans. I finished my coffee.



Mar. 23rd, 2010 08:56 am
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (asskicking boots)

father, daughter
he holds the grass, she aims the glass
they set spring on fire


Magnifying glass: $6.99
A Lifetime of Arson: priceless


cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (Default)

August 2017

1314 1516171819


RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Sep. 24th, 2017 05:12 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios